Zheng had learned to recognize Ishmael's moods.

Not because Ishmael was particularly easy to read. Quite the opposite.

She was a woman of few words when she wished. Of many when she needed. And there were days when her silence seemed to say more than anything that could leave her lips.

Zheng had learned the difference between them.

She knew when Ishmael wanted company.

She knew when she wanted to be alone.

She knew when she should offer a mug of coffee and when it was better to simply leave the drink within her reach and say nothing.

It was a useful skill.

Zheng liked being useful.

Maybe she liked it too much.

— Ishmael: You're doing it again.

Zheng looked up.

Ishmael was sitting beside her.

— Zheng: Doing what?

— Ishmael: That.

She pointed at Zheng's hand.

Only then did Zheng realize she was holding the sleeve of her own shirt between her fingers.

— Zheng: Ah.

She let go of the fabric.

— Zheng: Sorry.

— Ishmael: I didn't ask for an apology.

— Zheng: I know.

— Ishmael: Then why are you apologizing?

Zheng opened her mouth.

Closed it.

She didn't have an answer she could offer without sounding ridiculous.

Because something was wrong.

Or maybe it wasn't.

That was exactly the problem.

Ishmael was sitting too close.

Their shoulders were almost touching.

Zheng could feel her warmth through the fabric.

It was a small thing.

Something completely insignificant.

But Zheng was thinking about it.

Thinking about it too much.

— Ishmael: You're quiet.

Zheng smiled.

— Zheng: You are too.

— Ishmael: I asked first.

— Zheng: Then you win.

Ishmael let out a quiet breath through her nose.

It wasn't quite a laugh.

But almost.

Zheng felt something inside her chest ease.

And that was when she realized.

She had been waiting for that.

That tiny reaction.

That almost-smile.

She was always waiting for it.

As though every crumb of affection was proof that everything was still alright.

That Ishmael was still there.

That she hadn't done anything to drive her away.

That, for now, she wasn't being abandoned.

Zheng looked away.

— Zheng: Do you think I'm annoying?

The question escaped before she could stop it.

Ishmael turned toward her.

— Ishmael: What?

— Zheng: Never mind.

— Ishmael: Zheng.

— Zheng: Forget it.

— Ishmael: Zheng.

Her tone changed.

It wasn't irritation.

It was attentiveness.

And somehow, that was worse.

Zheng closed her eyes for a moment.

— Zheng: Sometimes I think you only stay close to me because you pity me.

Silence came immediately.

This time, Ishmael didn't seem to know what to say.

Zheng gave a quiet laugh.

— Zheng: Sorry. I know that was-

— Ishmael: Stop apologizing.

Zheng stopped.

Ishmael was looking at her.

There was something strange on her face.

Not anger.

Not exactly.

— Ishmael: Do you really think that?

Zheng hesitated.

The truthful answer was yes.

But saying it out loud would make it all too real.

— Zheng: I don't know.

— Ishmael: You just said you do.

— Zheng: I said sometimes I do.

— Ishmael: And why?

Zheng lowered her gaze.

Because you're too good for me.

Because I abandoned people who loved me.

Because maybe I was a horrible person before I came here.

Because you've already lost too many people.

Because I don't want to become one more thing you have to carry.

Because if you stay, I'll want you to stay forever.

She said none of those things.

— Zheng: Because you could be with anyone.

Ishmael remained still.

— Zheng: And you choose to stay with me.

Zheng tried to smile.

— Zheng: It's not that hard.

— Ishmael: No.

The answer came too quickly.

Zheng looked at her.

Ishmael seemed to regret speaking.

— Ishmael: It's not that hard, she repeated more quietly. — I'm not here because I pity you.

Zheng didn't answer.

— Ishmael: Do you understand that?

— Zheng: I'm trying.

— Ishmael: Then try harder.

Zheng let out a small laugh.

— Zheng: You're too kind.

— Ishmael: Don't start.

— Zheng: Sorry.

Ishmael closed her eyes.

— Ishmael: Zheng.

— Zheng: Alright.

Silence.

This time, however, neither of them seemed to know how to end it.

Until Ishmael asked:

— Ishmael: Do you think I wouldn't notice if you weren't here?

Zheng blinked.

— Zheng: What?

— Ishmael: If you just... weren't.

The question sounded weird.

— Zheng: You mean if I got off the bus?

— Ishmael: No.

Ishmael looked ahead.

— Ishmael: I mean if you stopped coming.

Zheng felt her stomach tighten.

— Zheng: Would you miss me?

Ishmael took a long time to answer.

Too long.

Zheng smiled without humor.

— Zheng: See?

She began to pull away.

It was only a small movement.

She meant to stand.

Give her space.

Let Ishmael be at ease.

That was what she always did whenever she realized she was being inconvenient.

But Ishmael caught her wrist.

Zheng froze.

The two of them looked at Ishmael's hand.

Neither of them seemed to understand why it was there.

— Ishmael: I wasn't finished.

Zheng didn't move.

— Zheng: Alright.

Ishmael let go of her wrist.

But she didn't move her hand away.

Her fingers remained close to Zheng's.

— Ishmael: I would miss you.

Zheng forgot to breathe.

— Zheng: Ah.

It was all she could manage.

Ishmael frowned.

— Ishmael: "Ah"?

— Zheng: I don't know what you want me to say.

— Ishmael: Neither do I.

That made Zheng look at her.

Ishmael was blushing.

Only a little.

Barely at all.

But Zheng knew that face.

She knew that tiny movement of her eyebrows.

She knew the way Ishmael looked away when she didn't want to be watched.

Zheng realized.

And something inside her changed.

It wasn't some grand revelation.

It wasn't like waking from a dream.

It was smaller.

More frightening.

Zheng realized that, for the first time, she didn't want to ask why Ishmael would stay.

She didn't want to ask if it was out of pity.

She didn't want to ask how long it would last.

She wanted to believe.

That was all.

And perhaps that was exactly what made it so dangerous.

— Zheng: I would miss you too.

Ishmael looked at her.

— Ishmael: You already knew that.

Zheng felt her heart beat faster.

— Zheng: I did?

— Ishmael: You look at me all the time.

— Zheng: I don't.

— Ishmael: You do.

— Zheng: I don't.

— Ishmael: Zheng.

— Zheng: Ishmael.

A smile appeared at the corner of Ishmael's mouth.

This time, a real one.

Zheng felt her chest tighten.

And then the thought came.

Cruel.

Simple.

Inevitable.

I don't want her to pity me.

Zheng lowered her eyes to their hands.

I want her to choose me.

And, for the first time, Zheng realized there was an enormous difference between those two things.

The thought should have frightened her.

And it did.

But there was something else there too.

Something warm.

Something she didn't know how to name.

— Ishmael: Zheng.

— Zheng: Hm?

— Ishmael: You're doing it again.

She looked at Ishmael.

— Zheng: What?

Ishmael pointed downward.

Only then did Zheng realize.

Without noticing, her fingers had found Ishmael's.

And this time, it wasn't Ishmael holding her hand.

It was Zheng.

They both remained still.

Zheng could let go.

She should let go.

But she didn't.

Neither did Ishmael.

— Zheng: Ah... Zheng murmured.

Ishmael laughed.

— Ishmael: Is that all you know how to say?

— Zheng: At the moment, yes.

— Ishmael: How disappointing.

Zheng smiled.

And, for the first time in a long while, she didn't try to figure out whether that smile was allowed.

— Don Quixote: Ah!

The two of them turned immediately.

Don stood in the doorway, glancing at their hands.

Zheng let go of Ishmael's hand at once.

— Don Quixote: I saw nothing!

She shut her eyes while covering her face, peeking at the two of them through the gaps between her fingers.

— Don Quixote: Absolutely nothing!

Ishmael sighed.

— Ishmael: Then why are you still here?

— Don Quixote: Why, I merely came to inform thee that Dante doth summon thee!

Don pointed down the hallway.

— Don Quixote: Pray, continue with... whatsoever ye were about!

And before either of them could answer, she dashed away.

— Don Quixote: Fret not!! The great Don Quixote shall tell no soul!!!

The door closed.